"I can do it," Mom said looking down the steep red staircase inside the Atomium. I was scared Mom couldn't.

The only reason we were visiting this bizarre Brussels landmark was because our planned daytrip had gone terribly awry that morning.

First, I got lost trying to find the train station, then I accidentally waited an hour to buy train tickets at what turned out to be a travel agency, and when we finally found the right ticket counter and bought our fare, I led us onto the wrong train. Five hours wasted, and it was all my fault.

Sometime over the past two decades of occasional trips with my mother, a strange thing happened. Instead of Mom navigating the complexities of travel — ticketing, taxicabs, train schedules, hotels and reservations — I took charge.

It wasn't always that way. When we visited Munich when I was a teenager, my face swelled up and I was in agony from an infection caused by a recently removed wisdom tooth. Mom called the American embassy and found a free dental clinic. She elbowed her way through a pack of people waiting outside the clinic before it opened, and negotiated the language barrier to get me treated. I stood helplessly at her side. Growing up, Mom was the fierce mama bear who tactlessly steamrolled any problems we encountered. I depended on her completely.

Now it is me, age 40, reading the maps, making the decisions and solving the problems. Mom, at 70, walks hunched over, searching for cracks that might send her tumbling. Mom seems frailer and less competent at handling the adversities that come with travel. I hate seeing her age, but I am grateful for every trip we get to take together.

Mind you, it's not always perfect. We inevitably regress into our ancient roles of nagging mom and snotty teen at some point on all our trips. Every time we leave a hotel room, Mom asks if I have my key, my wallet and a jacket, in case it gets cold. As if I'm 10 years old and not a grown woman with a daughter of my own. She does it every time, and every time I snap.

In Brussels, I was in charge and I was blowing it.

I suggested we visit the Atomium in an attempt to rescue our day. Even though her arthritic hip already hurt from our wanderings, Mom said "Let's do it."

Built for the 1958 World Exhibition, the 30-story high Atomium is shaped like an iron crystal enlarged 165 billion times. Mom and I glided up long escalators to steel spheres that housed exhibition halls.

We reached the end of the Atomium exhibit and discovered the only exit was a staircase down — about 20 stories worth of steps. So far, my mistakes had been harmless, but the idea of dragging Mom down those stairs brought up images of real injury. My Mom's tolerance for pain is remarkable, but even she was hesitant to take the stairs.

I hate seeing my mother in pain. When I was 7-years-old, Mom was standing on a chair cleaning a high window when she slipped and landed hard on her back. She yelped on impact. I collapsed in a crying heap at her side. Still on her backside, Mom took me in her arms and comforted me.

I felt that same weak-knee fear at the top of the Atomium, but I did not collapse into a heap. My mother, after all, raised me to be strong, independent and competent. Mom was depending on me, and I was determined to find a way out of this.

I picked up a black phone on the wall that I imagined was for this exact emergency, but the person at the other end spoke no English. I spoke none of the three official languages of Belgium: French, Dutch and German.

As I paced the hall searching for an employee, another mother/daughter duo arrived. They were Dutch and the elderly woman had asthma. They were distraught, too. The Dutch daughter tried the black phone. She spoke English and Dutch, but the person on the other end spoke only French and hung up on her. Finally, an Atomium employee appeared. I explained the situation and she radioed for a custodian to reverse the escalators for us.

We limped away from the Atomium, exhausted and giddy. We hugged and laughed and walked with our arms linked as we replayed our terrible day. It was a great day.

Our misadventures continued on our flights home. We flew to Newark, N.J., together but had separate flights to get us back to our home cities. Wind and rainstorms canceled my flight from Newark to Albany. Mom's flight to Providence was delayed. I decided to take Amtrak, while Mom stayed behind in Newark for her flight.

As I waited in line for the Albany train at Penn Station, a ping on my smartphone informed me that Mom's flight was postponed to the next day. I called her, but it went straight to voice mail. I knew I should go back to the airport to help, but I didn't. I made the incredibly selfish decision to get on the train and go home.

Later, I learned that Mom had spotted a young woman with a knapsack on her back, a newborn on her chest and a diaper bag over her shoulder. The woman looked overwhelmed, and Mom went to her side. The woman's father was ill, and she and her newborn son were trying to get to Providence to be with him.

For the next 12 hours, Mom rocked the baby, calmed the young mom and made sure nobody bumped them off their plane.

"Your mom was a blessing from God sent to assist me and my newborn son on our journey," the woman texted me when they landed in Providence.

As it turns out, Mom can still take charge. She's just happy to let me lead.